by Ryan Schow
Even with the volume on the TV turned way up, I couldn’t stop hearing Margaret’s desperation. She argued the merits of plastic surgery, again, and promised it would help me with my depression and my low self-esteem. My father’s silence, you could tell he was about to come unhinged.
Laying there, trying not to hear them, I fantasized of a world where I wasn’t me and my parents never had this life or each other, and then I thought of divorcing them. Is this possible? Finally Margaret slapped the newspaper on the counter and made a big production of leaving, the noise of huffing and her departing footsteps a disturbing, welcomed sound.
Mommy Dearest
1
Nothing blows more than having your parents embarrass you in public. It’s ten times worse when they do it on television. Curled on the couch in my pajamas with a half-eaten quart of Hagan Daas ice cream and three diet pills, I’m a bear in hibernation. Bliss consumes me. Flipping from reruns of Gossip Girl to one of those tabloid television shows, I see the two hosts and something in me clenches. The hostess is some Hollywood Charm School Barbie Doll, and the host is that deep dimpled over-smiler from Saved By The Bell. Mario something-or-whatever. Barbie is saying my father’s name. She’s saying Margaret’s name. The headline splashed all over the screen reads: ATTICUS VAN DUYN: HEADED FOR DIVORCE? Cut to the paparazzi. First my father, then Margaret and, holy unharmed Hindu cows, she looks like she’s at the tail end of a four day bender!
The scene is full night in front of one of the various restaurants we frequent, which one I can’t quite figure out because my anxieties are soaring. Bentley’s and Rolls Royce’s and Ferrari’s pull up to valet parking attendants who could be Chippendale’s dancers at their other jobs. From these six-figure cars emerge synthetic looking women and creepy old dudes with super black eyebrows and hair that is slipping backwards down their glossy peach skulls. The valets accept folded bills and car keys in their outstretched hands. They nod a lot and smile. They say clever things. Everyone knows they are on camera. The atmosphere almost feels plasticized and over-hyped, but it isn’t. This is how we live, where we dine, our social scene. My father being this sensationalized, sometimes it’s so embarrassing.
The first time my parents were on TV, I thought it was cool. The first time the press hinted Margaret had cocaine issues, the media became so relentless I was sick with what Margaret called “nervous diarrhea” for two days straight. At school, this rotten scab—Mandy Nelson—wouldn’t stop calling me “the blow-hound’s baby girl.” Twice that week I left during the middle of the day with what the nurse claimed were “food-poisoning type symptoms.” Seeing what I’m seeing, I’m about to have the same reaction once more.
The camera pans to the restaurant’s front door as my parents emerge into an explosion of flashbulbs and shouted questions. They aren’t holding hands. The space between them could span miles. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting for Margaret to smile, but she doesn’t. My father draws her into a protective embrace. Margaret shields herself from the cameras with a bejeweled hand she will later say is too revealing of her true age. When things are good, she enjoys the cameras, all the extra attention. She once said, “Having people talk about me is my new favorite hobby.” Now she glares at the paparazzi like she’d like to chew through their hearts. The bright lights rake deep shadows over the landscape of her face making her look like she’s battling cancer. If she wasn’t Satan’s baby sister, I would feel sad for her. But she is, so I don’t.
Typically Margaret’s publicity is fueled by her obsession with her image. There are pictures of her smiling extra wide with absolutely no facial expression because of the Botox. There are shots of her buying overpriced purses and shoes while the poor children in Africa are starving to death or dying of AIDS or whatever. But tonight’s pictures are unhappy pictures. The train has come off the tracks as the word DIVORCE? streams over and over again like a banner ad on the top of the screen. Whatever she did to upset my father, or make the press drop the d-bomb, it must really reek. Already I’m not wanting to know the details. With all the hate blackening my heart, I can’t suffer anymore without enduring permanent emotional damage. I just can’t.
The thought of this happening on live TV has me pulling my knees to my chest. My body is a tight, protective ball. The ice cream inside me is now warm and liquid and bubbling up my throat. I swallow hard, my eyes glued to the TV.
Barbie and Mario are now smiling really big while managing to act concerned as they speculate the various medications Margaret is on this time around. They say how my father can’t be happy to have such bad press right before launching SocioSphere’s long awaited version 3.0. Barbie name-drops labels like Prozac and Xanax and OxyContin and I have to wonder if the show is being paid advertising dollars for this kind of drug-plugging. They might as well just say, “When you’re rich, these are the designer medications you should consume.”
The show flips from in-studio to on-location. At the restaurant, Margaret and my father push through the paparazzi to get to their car. The photographers are unrelenting. They corral my parents into a gauntlet of flash bulbs and pointed questions. My stomach makes a slow, nauseous roll. I turn up the volume when what I really want is to snap off the TV and avoid another panic attack, more food-poisoning type symptoms.
Mario’s voiceover is using impact words like addiction and rehabilitation. He and anorexic Barbie are asking each other scripted questions like, “What is her mental state going to be if she survives something like this?” Already I can hear Jay Leno making jokes at the expense of our family in his comedy shtick tonight. By this time tomorrow, Margaret’s name will be everywhere. Every drama unfolding will be hyped and overblown, played out to sheer and utter exhaustion. In three days time, the name Margaret Van Duyn will have people praying for tragic crimes to be committed, tornados to hit, head-on-collisions with multiple fatalities to occur just so they don’t have to hear about my parents’ marital issues on the five and ten o’clock news anymore.
My God, couldn’t my father at least have prepared me? The scene isn’t a “live” scene. Which means this happened, what?—last night? He had to know they were going to be on TV tonight and how it would affect me. Yet he said nothing. Nothing!
I feel like stepping on beautiful flowers. All this agitation misfiring inside me, I want to scream for the sake of screaming. This sounds childish, narcissistic even, but I really don’t need this right now! Why can’t they just do something normal for a change? Why is it that everything Margaret does always has to be bigger than life?
The sneak-peek headline for tomorrow night’s broadcast reads: ATTICUS VAN DUYN’S SOON-TO-BE EX-WIFE IS OFF TO REHAB AGAIN.
They can’t even say her name. The sons of— “It’s Margaret, you freaking cockroaches!” I don’t usually yell at the TV, but honestly, sometimes I can’t help myself.
Wait a minute, rehab? What!? Oh, great! What nickname will my classmates think of now? Being called the blow-hound’s baby girl was humiliating enough. I can’t do it again.
I won’t.
2
I flip off the TV, stuff the ice cream back in the freezer, and try not to cry from the degradation of it all. The armpits in my light blue nightshirt are soaked dark blue with sweat; the top of my shirt is sticking to my back. It’s so gross, but I can’t help it. Margaret says it’s part of my condition. The way nervousness gushes through me leaving oceans of perspiration behind, I guess that’s social anxiety disorder. Of course, it could also be one of the dozens of potential side effects I’m suffering being on so much medication. The way medicine is going these days, everything’s an illness with a cure for sale. My cure…maybe that’s the real disease.
I don’t want to go to Facebook, or SocioSphere, but self-destructive curiosity compels me. Breathless, things are worse than I feared. The idiots on SocioSphere are already posting like crazy, saying the most horrible things, taking digs at both me and my family’s expense. Someone from my school—a girl I don’t know w
ho looks normal enough—at least she has the decency to write: EVEN FALLING APART, SAVANNAH’S MOTHER STILL LOOKS GORGEOUS!
On Yahoo’s homepage, the top headline reads: SOCIOSPHERE FOUNDER’S MARRIAGE IN TROUBLE AGAIN. INSIDE SOURCES SAY DIVORCE IS INEVITABLE.
Mark Zuckerberg must be thrilled.
I log onto Facebook and to my absolute horror I see pictures. Everyone’s talking about the photos that cake-eater Jacob Brantley posted. It seems the whole school is adding to his post. A righteous chill shoots through me as I see his post has one-hundred and six comments! The tabloid picture of me topless—the one with the uneven stars that fail to conceal my pathetic breasts—sits split-screen next to a beautiful picture of Margaret.
Jacob Brantley’s caption reads: NO WAY IN HELL THAT’S MARGARET’S BABY!
Another picture posted beside it is a particularly unflattering photo of me and my father. The caption reads: AT LEAST WE KNOW SHE’S HIS.
Jacob Brantley goes to my school and half the girls are in love with him because he looks like Zac Efron. You know, five foot ten, good body, sandy brown hair swept over heavy eyebrows and dreamy green eyes. A total heartthrob. I was once in love with him, too. Not now. With the things he’s done, how each post scrapes deep and ragged and drills me right down to my core—holy cow, what did I ever do to deserve this?
I shove out of my seat and race for the bathroom, skidding clumsily to my knees in front of the toilet bowl. Milliseconds later gallons of half-digested pizza, hot ice cream and stomach bile explode out of my mouth and nose. My eyes flood with throw-up tears. My nose runs with long, clear strings that drizzle and sway in the air below my chin. Convulsion after nasty convulsion rocks my poor, bloated body until my organs feel kicked around, rearranged. A few minutes later, the start of a high-pressure migraine makes a crushing appearance behind my sewn-together left ear.
All I can think about is how badly I want to die. All I’m thinking about is how well rat poison will go with an icy Diet Coke. I’m trying to determine if there is enough rope in the attic to hang myself, or if there is even a beam in the house able to hold my not-insubstantial weight. Can you slice your wrists open with disposable razors? Who can say for sure, but to my absolute dismay, I’m certain you can’t and this has me feeling more desperate than ever.
The first coherent, non-suicidal thought to hit me after expelling my guts is rage for Margaret. The second thought is there’s no way I’m going back to school. My father will have to send me someplace else. Some out-of-state institution. Or perhaps, out-of-the-country. London is supposed to be lovely this time of year.
I flush the toilet, rinse my mouth out, and blow my nose. The telephone rings. I grab the phone and the caller ID shows it’s my best friend Netty calling. Netty is a homely looking beanpole of girl with a thick-sounding Slavic tongue whose bullish Russian father is an entertainment lawyer with offices in Palo Alto and Los Angeles. He is currently being sued by his biggest client for embezzlement. When I first asked if her father was worried, Netty narrowed her eyes and said, “We’re Russian, Savannah,” as if that explained everything.
My brain warns me not to answer the phone. The irrational, paranoid part of me thinks it could be a reporter calling, one who somehow knows how to clone other people’s caller IDs. That’s possible, you know. The phone rings four times, then five; I answer it before it goes to voicemail. I don’t say hello, just in case.
“Oh my God, Savannah,” Netty breathes into the phone, not even waiting for a proper greeting, “I’m so, so sorry.”
Her Russian accent made heavier with concern is my only lifeline. I need to talk with her, but where should I begin? My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Savannah? You there?” Netty says. The lump in my throat is too large to swallow. “Say something, will you?”
Finally: “I’m here.”
“What are you doing?”
She wants to know if I’m throwing up. She knows too much attention, especially this kind of publicity, will positively obliterate my insides.
When my panic attacks started four years ago, Margaret told me they were different from my social anxiety disorder, and they had pills for that sort of thing. Back then she was sure. She suggested Sertraline pills, or a Benzodiazepine tranquilizer for immediate relief. My father said, “Tranquilizers, Margaret? Are you serious?” Thankfully our physician said Benzodiazepine could be habit forming, so tranquilizers were out and Sertraline was in. The Sertraline didn’t work so my doctor suggested Paxil. Things slid downhill fast. My ears started ringing and I couldn’t sleep. Heart palpitations followed. They were like some crazy tribal-drum pounding against my already aching ribs. Plus, the unthinkable happened: rapid weight gain. Margaret doesn’t know I stopped taking the drug, only that my weight is leveling out, so now I swallow my anxiety like my life depends on it.
Drawing a deep breath, I finally answer Netty’s unspoken question about me throwing up. “I’ve been talking to Ralph on the big white phone, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thought so.”
“It’s not because what’s on TV or even the divorce. It’s Facebook and SocioSphere. Everyone’s talking. Jacob Brantley…that troglodyte, he’s…he posted—” My forehead feels damp, my eyes itchy and swollen. I can’t speak without sobbing.
“I know,” Netty whispers on an exhale, her tone less manic, softer. “I’m on Facebook right now.”
The weight of my pain becomes clear. “How…can Jacob be…so cruel?” I ask, hiccupping my way through a spectacularly unattractive crying jag. Really, I want to know.
“The next time I see that bottom-feeding parasite…swear to God, Savannah—my hand on your Bible—we’re going to end him.” Something interesting about Netty is, for not weighing much, she’s got the full force of her father’s temper.
“That thing he did with my parents’ pictures, what he said about my father, I don’t care how good looking he is, I freaking hate that…that…douchebag.”
“For sure,” Netty says. For a second we’re both quiet, then Netty laughs. She says, “I just commented on Jacob’s post. I said if he didn’t take your photo down I’d email everyone I know that locker room picture of his tiny wiener.”
I snort out a teary-eyed laugh. “What picture is that?”
“There’s no picture,” she says, self-satisfaction filling her voice, “but wait…your picture is gone. Hah! Mission accomplished. Wait…damn. Now the whole post is gone!”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I was hoping to really get the ball rolling on the small penis thing. I’m looking for photos of Vienna sausages as we speak.”
The shelf life on my relief can be measured in seconds. My stomach is still coiling itself in and out of knots, and for a moment, the backs of my eyeballs feel pressure squeezed so hard my brain begins to throb. The migraine pulls tight around my skull, the pain spreading down into my neck and shoulders.
“Oh, Netty, I so want a boring life. I’m already a nobody, can’t I do it in private already?”
“You’re not a nobody.”
Rubbing my temples, I force myself to think of those people in Japan—how when the earthquakes and the tsunami hit, they were cold and homeless and being radiated to death—and it makes me less inclined to feel sorry for myself. One of my therapists once said, “Take any situation and think of someone who has it worse than you, then be thankful you aren’t them.” It’s a semi-decent technique that sometimes works.
I say, “For real, I could just scream thinking of all the stupid stuff Margaret does. Now this? I don’t even know what she’s done this time, only that it’s ruining my life.” Whatever it is, it must be something devastating for Margaret to cry on TV. She says crying makes your eyes puffy and it prematurely ages you.
Netty says, “My mom’s bonkers, too. Lately she’s become obsessed with Pilates videos and these disgusting strawberry-banana protein shakes. She looks really good, but her farts are stinking up the whole house and it’s
making it impossible to even breathe anymore.”
“You should ask your dad to buy you a bigger house,” I say, deadpan. She bursts out laughing. The thing about rich people is they’re always looking to solve small problems in unconventional, expensive ways just to prove money isn’t an issue. Or maybe that’s just the rich people I know. Where we live, half the population is loaded, brilliant, and totally off their rockers.
In the foyer, the front door opens. My parents. Great. Whispering into the phone, I say, “They’re home.”
“You going to hide?”
“Totally.”
“Text me later.”
3
Part of me is desperate to hide, but the other part of me is too enraged to be so cowardly. I storm the foyer and confront them, my anger a fluid thing rising up within me.
I stand on one side of the foyer and my exhausted looking parents stand on the other side and it feels like friction before the storm. Tension strains through the air between us, my face seared with emotion, their faces pale with shame. Together we are something awful. The physical embodiment of dysfunction.
“Hello, darling,” my father says. Not his casual self. Nervous. Tired for sure.
I stand inert, sixteen and incensed, on the precipice of my young life thinking I shouldn’t feel this homicidal. I shouldn’t feel this hurt. What I’m really thinking is, enough is enough.
“I want a divorce,” I say. “From the both of you.”
Their faces are confused. They look at each other; they look at me. Their faces are sadness. Not for me wanting to quit them, but sad because they failed to keep us together.
“I need to go someplace on my own. Dad, you need to send me somewhere, anywhere, just not back to school. I can’t face those people after tonight.”
“We have someplace in mind,” my father says.
Margaret chimes in, telling me I’m going to just love it. She tries to smile and be chipper and reassuring as she says this, but it’s so utterly unconvincing she realizes her error and tempers the fake enthusiasm. “It’s everything you’d ever want in a school.”
